I was walking to and fro in the hall, waiting for the heavy lunch to digest. It was a great lunch with family and friends when suddenly the gate rattled, ’saw a postman putting something in the letterbox and go. Ah, another bill to pay I thought and went to fetch it. To my surprise, it was a letter addressed to me. Really? I got a letter? That was strange, I didn’t have many friends and the ones I know are all in Hyderabad with cellphones, who would’ve posted a letter then? I opened it hastily to see it was sent by my friend who was giggling right beside me. That was a surprise. It was only a week earlier, when I shared my love for letters with them. Why did I like hand written letters so much? What was so romantic about them anyway? Is it the clichéd idea of a lone person sitting on a desk, writing on a parchment with a quill, sometimes smiling to himself, sometimes in deep thought, that never failed to raise goosebumps? Could be (yea, I know I belong to a different era). Last week, I walked into a local bookstore and stopped by the stationery aisle to check for letter-pads (out of curiosity), and found a few handmade paper letter-pads & envelopes which looked too sterile and sanitised to use. None had the charm, warmth, playfulness of the papers I once knew. These, simply didn’t invite a person to write

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